


the way to a man's heart is through his gluten-intolerant stomach

by vaporstretch



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Atsumu just wants to bake stuff for Kiyoomi, Awkward Crush, BUT he doesn't know that he's pining lol, Baking, Dessert & Sweets, M/M, Meet-Cute ish?, Not Beta Read, POV Miya Atsumu, Pining Miya Atsumu, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaporstretch/pseuds/vaporstretch
Summary: "Well doesn't that suck?," Atsumu comments. "Like you can't eat bread and cookies and--""That's absolutely inaccurate," Kiyoomi cuts him off. "I can eat baked goods. They just have to be gluten-free. Which is precisely why I mainly frequent that bakery two streets down from your café. Unlike your place, they have gluten-free food items."The stir of a challenge begins to roil in some part of Atsumu. "I bet ours still taste better."And for the first time, Kiyoomi breaks out of his cold and unfeeling  facade when he scoffs. "I highly doubt that."----In which Miya Atsumu, baking enthusiast, wants to prove to one Sakusa Kiyoomi just how well he can whip up a gluten-free confection.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 36
Kudos: 365





	the way to a man's heart is through his gluten-intolerant stomach

**Author's Note:**

> what first fic of 2021??? and a pretty self-indulgent one??? 
> 
> anyway i hope this was okay lol

It's definitely too early for this, Atsumu thinks. He's too sleep-deprived, too underpaid (although to be fair, this is their family café), and too generally intolerant to entitled bullshit to be dealing with a whiny customer at seven in the morning.

"I specifically asked for two pumps of syrup," a lady in her thirties rags in a nasally voice. " _ Two pumps. _ "

Atsumu quite nearly spits out a snarky retort, but his years of tending to a wide array of customers has sufficiently trained him to let these complaints enter one ear and roll right out the other with ease.  _ The customer is always right, _ their mom had always emphasized. A nonsensical philosophy that Atsumu and his twin brother Osamu had no choice but to succumb to lest they get booted out of this part-time gig which they’re already quite lucky to have considering its convenient proximity to their university campus. In Atsumu’s case, he finds it to be an added bonus that he also gets to do something he genuinely enjoys--baking. And so if it weren't for the occasional customers from hell, it would have been an absolutely perfect sideline.

Unfortunately, perfection is but a pipe dream and so Atsumu, worn out from the first two days of finals, simply bites his tongue instead and lets the corner of his mouth quirk up in a stiff, apologetic smile.

"We did put two pumps, ma'am," he explains. 

"Well how come it doesn't taste like it then?" she snaps. 

_ Jesus Christ _ .

"How about we just give you a croissant? On the house," Atsumu offers. "To make up for our mistake."

A distinctive glint that Atsumu has been fairly accustomed to flashes before the lady's eyes. The lines on her forehead disappear and she does  _ this shrug _ that Atsumu has witnessed too many times that he almost rolls his eyes.

"Well," the lady says. "If you insist."

"A croissant it is then," Atsumu confirms. He pulls out a plate from under the counter and using a pair of metal tongs, he plucks a croissant from the display rack before plopping the pastry on the white round ceramic.

Atsumu slides the plate across the counter. "Here you go, ma'am."

The lady grins smugly, taking the plate of croissant he himself had baked. If Atsumu didn't love baking so much, it would have irritated the living hell out of him every single time he had to dole out free baked goods to pacify a venting customer. But he’s what people might call ‘quite passionate about it’ and so the time he spends testing new recipes in the kitchen is, as cheesy as it may sound, certainly priceless.

Atsumu finally lets out a sigh once the woman has walked back to her seat. Eventually, his twin emerges from the back with a bag of coffee beans.

"Hey," Atsumu says, turning to face his twin. "That frap from earlier, tell me you put two pumps of syrup in that drink."

Osamu raises an eyebrow. "Uhh...no? I thought you said just one?"

"Didn't I say two, dumbass?"

Then his twin glowers at him before pulling out the topmost order slip from the receipt spindle on the bar. 

"One medium-sized coffee frappé. Syrup: one pump," Osamu reads. "It says one pump,  _ dumbass _ ."

"Let me see," and Atsumu snatches the order slip only to find out that it does say one pump.

"Maybe do a better job of taking orders next time instead of taking it out on me," Osamu jabs.

Just then the chime of the bell from the doorway pulls the twins out of their argument and despite the itch to come back at his twin, Atsumu opts to flipping him off before he reverts back to servicing mode. 

The two new people who just entered are clearly university students, Atsumu notes. The signature finals week dark circles and bleary haze in their eyes don't go unnoticed especially the closer they get to the counter. As a university student himself, Atsumu shares solidarity with such unfortunate soulless members of society whose youthful vigor only comes rushing back in after the onslaught of examinations. So he feels an odd twist of comfort whenever he encounters fellow students at the café.

While they both appear to be respectively weighed down by mandated academic exploits, Atsumu notices the air of difference in their auras. The slightly shorter one with copper brown hair and sporting a thick puffer jacket looks more forthcoming while the taller of the two is starkly sullen with his inky black curls and inky black eyes which match the inky black oversized peacoat that he wears on top of his inky black sweater. A huge contrast to the paleness of his face--at least what could be seen of it because of the face mask that obscures everything from the nose bridge down. 

“I don’t understand why we can’t just wait for the other one to open,” the taller one grumbles. “We don’t even know what they serve here.”

The shorter one sighs. “That’s what the menu board is for, Kiyoomi. And I’m starving already. I promise you this is the first  _ and last _ time we’re getting breakfast at a place other than the usual.” 

The taller one sighs loud enough somehow for the sound to permeate through his face mask. “Fine.”

_ The hell’s his problem?  _ is what Atsumu thinks, but he forces a tiny grin instead.

“Good morning,” Atsumu says. “What can I get you?”

“Do you have anything gluten-free?” the taller one says it so belligerently that the question catches Atsumu off-guard, almost as if he were being robbed at gun-point. 

“Uhh...no?” Atsumu says, involuntarily putting a hand up. “I mean, the plain black coffee is probably gluten-free.”

_...Is it? _

“I’m really sorry,” the one with the brown hair chuckles. “My cousin is a bit sensitive to gluten so--”

“Not just a bit,” the taller one corrects. “My body does not react well to it  _ at all _ .”

Atsumu furrows his brows. “So what like...you break out in hives if you eat bread or something?”

“Well actually Kiyoomi’s tummy just gets all weird and sometimes he might even wanna take a sh--”

The taller one clears his throat so aggressively that Atsumu winces. 

“I’m getting the black coffee,” the taller one apparently named Kiyoomi murmurs. “Strictly no sugar or dairy. Just plain black coffee.”

“I heard you the first time,” Atsumu mumbles under his breath as he punches in the order. He thinks Kiyoomi might have caught that though since he’s narrowing his eyes at him which is something Atsumu has been at the receiving end of multiple times at this point so he really couldn’t care less  _ even if _ he were to start crossing his arms and requesting to speak to the manager. 

“And anything else?” Atsumu asks them. 

The shorter one hunches over to peer down at the baked goods behind the glass display. “Which of these would you recommend?”

Atsumu suddenly feels awake and energized. “Well since you ask--”

“I thought you were starving, Motoya?” Kiyoomi interrupts, laying the sarcasm on thick. “So why are you suddenly taking your time? Time that we  _ could have spent _ waiting at the other place?”

Motoya rolls his eyes. “I’ll have the banana bread,” he accedes, sounding vexed as he throws Kiyoomi some serious stink-eye.

Atsumu would have felt sorry for Motoya if it weren’t for the fact that this Kiyoomi fellow’s attitude has just outweighed his feelings of sympathy. So instead, all Atsumu just feels now is annoyance.

“Will that be here or--”

“To go,” Kiyoomi butts in yet again as he hands Atsumu a sleek credit card. 

Atsumu finds himself clenching his jaw while he receives the card from him. Then he sticks it in the credit card terminal before handing it over to Kiyoomi.

“Your PIN,” Atsumu says, not even bothering with honorifics. 

Kiyoomi punches in the PIN, returning the terminal to Atsumu who checks to confirm that it has read the card. Once the transaction has been completed, he tears off the receipt and extends it to Kiyoomi.

"Please wait to the side while I prepare your order," Atsumu bristles. 

Kiyoomi takes the receipt from him, huffing out a hasty and half-hearted thanks as if he couldn’t be bothered to show Atsumu the slightest bit of gratitude. 

And as if things couldn't get any more high blood-inducing, when he turns around, he's met with his twin's shit-eating grin. In his hand is already one plain black coffee. 

"Thanks for handling the frontlines, dear brother," Osamu sneers and Atsumu just takes the coffee cup from him. 

After warming up the banana bread, he slips it inside a brown paper bag that has the Café Miya logo printed on it.

"Excuse me," Atsumu calls for the earlier duo's attention. Motoya perks up and he takes the orders from Atsumu's hands.

"Thanks," Motoya says and he gives Atsumu an awkward, pinched smile. An attempt at sympathy. 

Atsumu nods in acknowledgement and he sees Kiyoomi grabbing the coffee cup from Motoya. As Atsumu expected, he doesn’t spare him a secondary thank you before he turns to start walking towards the doorway with Motoya. 

"Wow," Osamu snickers while he does a mocking slow clap. "I thought  _ for sure _ you were going to lose your shit there for a second."

"Shut up," Atsumu says. 

Osamu wasn’t entirely wrong. While the highs and lows of his customer service stint has taught Atsumu how to tune out too opinionated café patrons, he still admits to falling short of his twin's impressive ability to remain composed and unbothered even when a customer resorts to flinging ad hominem attacks. Of course, it's an entirely different story when it specifically involves dealing with his own kin. Atsumu has called him a two-faced bastard for that. Osamu dismisses it as mere professionalism.

On the other hand, Atsumu isn't exactly a poster child of the calm and collected, and thus has even been guilty of throwing the occasional offhanded comments which his brain has failed to filter out before it slithers past his lips. If it weren’t for the fact that Osamu was just better at being a barista, then Atsumu wouldn’t have to be relegated to manning the register. Practically speaking, it's the last job he should be doing, but sadly he can't whip up drinks with the kind of speed and finesse as Osamu and his latté art definitely leaves much to be desired. 

Just now, Atsumu was definitely toeing along the dangerous precipice of spitting out something nasty.  _ Don't ever come back!  _ was the comment that laid heavy on his tongue, threatening to burst out the very moment that Kiyoomi guy turned on his heel. And it was definitely bizarre. The visceral feelings of irritation Atsumu had just felt was unmistakably new. 

Perhaps it was the way Kiyoomi had stared at him, the passive-aggression so apparent even in his subtlest gestures. Straightforward pissy-ness was something Atsumu could take on any day. But being offensive in a way that was just  _ detached  _ and disinterested--as if to say 'you're really not worth the time and effort'--unlocked a particular kind of frustration in Atsumu. 

And in that moment, he wishes to never be cursed with that smug Kiyoomi's presence ever again.

________________

There's definitely a bullet point list of items which Atsumu could complain about university: the libraries that were just too cold during winter, group projects that always lead to division rather than unity, and of course there's lecture hall. 

Thankfully, Atsumu has lecture hall only twice a week and because it was always an exceptionally large class (hell, he doesn’t even bother knowing his roulette of seatmates), it was easy to sneak in a quick nap or two whenever he would feel drowsy (which makes sense because lecture hall was scheduled at the end of a long day).

Lecture hall finally ends the way it usually does--with Atsumu looking down at his notes and unsure of what he had just scribbled over the course of the class. He promises to make sense of it later and he sighs before flipping the notebook close. 

While struggling to shake one of his legs awake, his ears pick up a familiar name uttered in the echoey expanse of the hall that's slowly becoming emptier by the second.

"Thanks, Kiyoomi-kun."

Atsumu tracks down the voice by craning his neck and there he sees them. Rather, there he sees  _ him. _

A few rows down sits Kiyoomi who is slowly stuffing his laptop inside his backpack, no longer shrouded in his black peacoat as it has been neatly folded lengthwise and made to drape across his seat's backrest.

Something switches off inside Atsumu and he soon finds himself stalking down the steps until he's finally right by Kiyoomi's row.

"Hey," Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi looks up, the same black curls falling across his forehead while the same black eyes peek over his face mask. 

"Yes?" 

"Do you remember me?" Atsumu prods. 

And Kiyoomi's thick brows knit together in confusion. "No?"

Atsumu blurts out a wry laugh. "You really don't remember me?"

It seems that Kiyoomi was about to bark out another stern no, but he hangs back a moment and his scrunched up brows go lax ever so slightly.

"Oh," he says. "You're that person from the café this morning."

"That's ri--"

"The one who couldn't tell whether or not coffee has gluten," Kiyoomi deadpans.

Atsumu's face feels hot all of a sudden. "What the hell even is your deal with gluten anyway?"

"I'm intolerant to it," Kiyoomi says like he's telling him the time. " _ That's _ my deal with gluten."

"Well doesn't that suck?," Atsumu comments. "Like you can't eat bread and cookies and--"

"That's absolutely inaccurate," Kiyoomi cuts him off. "I  _ can _ eat baked goods. They just have to be gluten-free. Which is precisely why I mainly frequent that bakery two streets down from your café. Unlike your place, they have gluten-free food items."

The stir of a challenge begins to roil in some part of Atsumu. "I bet ours still taste better."

And for the first time, Kiyoomi breaks out of his cold and unfeeling facade when he scoffs. "I highly doubt that."

Kiyoomi shrugs on his backpack and he picks up the peacoat from the backrest. Atsumu lets him squeeze out of his desk, eventually walking past him.

"I'll make you think otherwise, Kiyoomi-kun!" Atsumu yells after him.

Kiyoomi turns around, narrowing his eyes at him the way he did the first time they met at the café. "Don't call me by my first name."

Atsumu thinks that after that declaration, Kiyoomi was going to face forward and start his descent down the remaining steps, but instead he pauses. 

"Sakusa," he tells Atsumu. "That's my last name."

_ Sakusa Kiyoomi. I'll make you eat your words and then some. _

  
  


________________

Atsumu doesn't know why he's doing this instead of studying and finishing a paper, but he's here now, nearly one in the morning and right in the middle of their sweltering kitchen, drowning in the heady scent of chocolate. After many attempts, he's finally nailed it. At least, he thinks he did. All that's left to do is to cut up his creation once it's finished cooling down so he can lump them all in a plastic container that has Sakusa Kiyoomi's name on it.

  
  


The second lecture hall of the week arrives and Atsumu can't seem to stop his right leg from bouncing too much. He wasn't able to hand Kiyoomi his ‘surprise’ before the start of the class because Atsumu had overslept at the library and had came in fifteen minutes late-- quite unfashionably so if he may add considering his unruly post-nap hair and the haphazard way he had chucked on his jacket as he bolted out of the library.

But appearances be damned (and maybe also his academics) because right now, all he's looking forward to is gloating in front of Kiyoomi once he sees him take one bite of his baked confection. 

Atsumu was certain there was almost no end in sight to this lecture, but the professor does eventually wrap things up and dismisses the class. After attempting to stifle the rush of anticipated jitters, Atsumu rises from his seat, backpack carelessly slipped on, the plastic container suddenly taking on more weight as he clutches it in his right hand. 

He notices Kiyoomi still occupied with arranging the items in his bag while everyone else in his row has shuffled out of their seats. So Atsumu walks over, excitement and nerves creating a peculiar concoction of sensory overload that makes his heart leap to his throat.

“Hey,” Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi looks at him and his thick brows are doing that same thing they always do so that Atsumu starts to think with absolution that Kiyoomi only knows how to execute two facial expressions: lethal scowl and scowl lite. Right now, he’s doing the latter. Thankfully.

“Mind if I take a seat?” Atsumu motions to the empty space beside Kiyoomi. “Feels weird to be literally looking down on you while we talk.”

“Oh?” Kiyoomi tilts his head and the scowl turns into a sardonically raised brow. “I wouldn’t have pegged you to be the humble type.”

Atsumu returns the nonchalant taunt with a smug grin. “You’re right. I’m not.” And Atsumu slips into the seat beside him, dumping his bag on the floor in the process. “And if you try  _ these _ , you’ll know exactly why I have no reason to be.” 

The plastic container is finally on the table, staring at Kiyoomi who spares it a quick glance before turning his attention to Atsumu.

“What’s this?” Kiyoomi asks, the scowl lite making a second appearance. 

“This,” Atsumu taps the lid of the container. “Is a kickass batch of brownies.”

Scowl lite is slowly turned up a notch. Maybe just two tiers below lethal scowl. “I can’t eat those. I already told y--”

“They’re gluten-free.”

It’s dialled down this time. Scowl lite lingers in the lines between his brows. “You made gluten-free brownies?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

It might have been too early, but Atsumu is downright confident in his skills so he brings out the triumphant grin he's been saving. “Because I told you I was going to make you think otherwise.”

Kiyoomi’s wary gaze lands on the container once more. “Open it then.”

Atsumu almost chokes on his spit in shock. “You’re seriously going to make me open it for you? So what you want me to refer to you as ‘your highness’ too?”

“I’m just taking precaution,” Kiyoomi folds his arms across his chest. “For all I know, this could be a prank.”

And Atsumu lets out the driest laugh of his life. “Fine.” He takes the container and pops open the lid then slides it back towards Kiyoomi. “It’s yours for the taking,  _ your highness _ .”

Kiyoomi remains unfazed by the verbal jab and then he’s reaching for his backpack and pulling out a small packet of tissues. He takes out one ply and gingerly plucks a brownie from the container, the tissue effectively forming a barrier between his fingers and the crumbly chocolate-y confection.

Atsumu watches with bated breath as Kiyoomi brings the brownie close to his face, then he’s removing his mask and suddenly Atsumu is forgetting all about the brownies and the subsequent boost to his ego because what the fuck.

_ He’s...hot? _

“This better not be a prank or else,” Kiyoomi warns and Atsumu is swiftly reminded of where he is and what’s actually happening before his very eyes.

Kiyoomi takes a small bite, almost just a measly nibble. And Atsumu sits there, witnessing him chew it like he’s attempting to break it down to its basic molecular structure. The chewing finally stops and Kiyoomi swallows. 

“Well?”

“It’s not bad,” Kiyoomi shrugs. 

“And he’s stingy with compliments too!” Atsumu mocks. "Who would have guessed?"

Then he's waiting for the telltale signs of a scowl, but instead Kiyoomi seems transfixed by the brownie, but he doesn't appear to be scrutinizing it either. And since Kiyoomi isn’t really talking, the silence drags on to a level of uncomfortable that makes Atsumu almost fidget in his seat.

"Uhh, anyway, you can have all of that," Atsumu eventually tells him.

Kiyoomi whips his head around, eyes widening just a smidge "Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I mean, might as well give these gluten-free brownies to a gluten-intolerant, right?"

"But the container--"

Atsumu starts to pick up his bag from the floor. "You can just drop it off at the café or give it back next lecture hall."

Kiyoomi seems moderately bewildered by the offer as if Atsumu had just told him to slash someone’s tires. 

“It’s not really a big deal,” Atsumu assures him, and he himself begins to question the way he’s suddenly talking to Kiyoomi--this baffling  _ warmth  _ that has just emerged from nowhere that it strikes Atsumu like the startling first drops of summer rain. 

“If you say so,” Kiyoomi finally says and his mouth is drawn tight like he’s testing the waters of what a smile can actually add to this situation.

It makes Atsumu mimic the expression because the thump against his ribcage has taken on an arrhythmic beat and he doesn’t want to open his mouth for fear that either something stupid might come out or he could just straight up stutter. 

And so Atsumu nods once, curt and casual to imply that he’s about to take his leave. When he finally exits the lecture hall, he lets out the deepest exhale, acknowledging the ache in his lungs as he breathes in.

_ What the fuck just happened? _

________________

It starts off with a simple statement:  _ I will not overthink this.  _ But in time, the statement festers like stubborn fungi, multiplying in a maddening pace until it transforms into a mantra:  _ I will not overthink this. I will not overthink this. I will not overthink this. _

Desperation turns the mantra into an incantation because maybe if Atsumu channels every ounce of supernatural force existing in the universe then  _ maybe _ , his mind will actually drop these thoughts and bury them in some place where the sun doesn’t shine. 

But by thinking about not overthinking, he winds up falling into his own trap and so when he gets to his afternoon shift at the café that Saturday, an unlikely wave of apprehension overcomes him.  _ What if he’s there? What do I say? Do I even say anything?  _

While he changes to his uniform, one of the other staff comes in. “Oh, you’re here!”

Atsumu groans internally. Usually when a staff member makes this kind of exclamation, it’s because they have something for him to do. And usually, it involves something unnecessarily cumbersome. 

“What now?” Atsumu grumbles.

The staff points to the table instead. “Someone dropped something off for you this morning.” 

And Atsumu pauses in the middle of rolling up his uniform sleeves and there he sees a familiar plastic container. With a note taped on it. Atsumu crosses the small staff’s quarters and picks up the container.

“Who was it? Did they say anything? I mean, did they ask about me?”

The staff looks overwhelmed by the barrage of questions and he awkwardly puts up two hands in front of him. “He didn’t say his name, but he’s this tall dude with curly hair. And he did ask about you, err, sort of.”

“What do you mean ‘sort of’?” 

“Well,” the staff scratches the back of his head. “He said--and I swear these were his  _ own _ words-- ‘Is the other person working the register around? The one who looks like a jerk?’”

It should’ve been the single most annoying thing he’s ever heard to come out of the mouth of someone who was not his provoker of a twin brother. And yet here he is  _ laughing _ instead.

“Anyway I also just wanted to remind you that my shift’s up in a few so--”

“Yeah, I got it,” Atsumu says. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

The staff eventually leaves and Atsumu is alone, one sleeve of his crisp white uniform still unrolled and the navy blue apron still hanging limply from his body. But his focus zeroes in on the note. Neatly folded, taped up with obvious care. And it's like he's seven years-old and cradling his birthday present in his arms. It's undoubtedly weird.

He finally peels back the tape and unfolds the note.

_ It pains me to admit defeat, but I must concede to your brownies. They were, as you said, a kickass batch. Anyway, since we're here, I would like to say sorry for my unbecoming attitude the other day. Call it a side effect of finals week stress; still inexcusable regardless. _

_ p.s. I already took the liberty of washing the container, but feel free to give it a second wash if you want. _

_ Sakusa Kiyoomi. _

Atsumu doesn't know how many times he's read and reread the damn thing, but it must have probably been beyond the socially acceptable amount because the staff from earlier has barged in.

"Hey your shift--whoa. Are you okay?"

The crash back to reality is a violent plummet that leaves Atsumu dazed and so a befuddled 'huh?' slips out of him once the inquiry settles into his mental faculties.

"Your face is kinda red," the staff points out. "Are you sick or something?"

Atsumu shakes his head, both to negate the assumption on his physical condition and to shake off the fuzziness from his mind. 

"So your shift?" the staff crosses his arms and begins to tap one foot impatiently.

"Right. On it," and Atsumu shoves the container and the note inside his backpack like they're clandestine loots. He fixes the rest of his uniform before finally stepping outside, body already on autopilot as the gears in his head start to turn, the beginnings of another recipe slowly taking shape.

________________

The days leading to the next lecture hall had felt strange. On one hand, Atsumu wished he had the ability to speed up time, but on the other, he wished there were bonus hours in a day so he could do more of the things he needed to do. His classes with Kiyoomi were every Monday and Friday and at ten pm on a Sunday (after an already strenuous afternoon of baking treats for their café), Atsumu was beginning to feel frantic about his gluten-free shortcake recipe.

Just on the cusp of midnight, Atsumu finally pulls out the most recent batch from the oven, praying in earnest that this will be the last before he can successfully call it a day. He lets the biscuits cool for a few minutes then he cuts into a piece, examining the texture and finally popping one in his mouth.

He could have started whooping in victory right then and there if it weren’t practically midnight and the rest of his family were sound asleep. So Atsumu resigns to just smiling to himself, definitely caught in a sugar high and maybe something else he has yet to entirely figure out. 

________________

  
  


Morning shift went by with its usual ups and downs, but nothing could sour Atsumu’s mood that day--even though it was a Monday and he had a quiz to still cram for. 

Immediately after he ends his shift, he rushes to the back kitchen where he takes out the biscuits, cream, and strawberries before assembling the shortcake. Atsumu then places it inside the same plastic container once he’s finished, sliding it in the fridge so it can stay fresh before he has to pick it up later. 

Atsumu spends the majority of the day hopping from class to class, squeezing in cram sessions in between while occasionally procrastinating as any college student would do. While in the middle of trying to write a paper that’s due the following day, his phone buzzes. A reminder flashes on screen:  _ Get shortcake! _

He almost stirs quite the commotion in the library when he jumps out of his seat, recklessly throwing his things in his backpack and making the mad dash from campus to the café. 

It’s unquestionably chilly outside, but Atsumu still manages to work up a sweat the instant he pushes past the front doors of the café. But as he walks from the entrance to the counter, he starts to notice something odd.

_ Why the hell does almost every table have strawberry shortcakes? That’s not on the men-- _

And the realization is a sharp uppercut to his jaw. 

“Fuck.”

Atsumu picks up speed, moving past the counter until he’s in the back kitchen where he sees his mother with another café staff. The work table where he usually prepares his baked goods looks messy, streaks of whipped cream and stray chunks of strawberries covering the surface.

“Mom!”

“Atsumu!” His mother looks slightly frazzled, but her eyes are distinctly bright. “Your shortcakes are a hit! You really need to ba--”

“They were not supposed to be for sale, mom!” Atsumu cries. 

Confusion paints his mother’s features. “What are you talking about?”

Atsumu groans and he flings the fridge door open only to find that the container is gone.

“Mom? Did you use up every single biscuit?”

His mother nods slowly. “Atsumu, what were these for if not--”

“Just forget it,” Atsumu huffs out, deflated. “I have to get to class.”

He’s certain that his mother had tried calling after him while in the midst of his dramatic exit, but Atsumu had already fallen deaf to the noise around him when all he could hear was the incessant surge of his blood roaring in his ears. 

________________

The last thing Atsumu wanted to do is go to class. However, this internal debate of whether or not he should skip lecture hall is put on the backburner when he starts to think about how all of this had come about in the first place. A week ago, he was just any other college student and disgruntled part-timer who found his moments of respite in baking. Life had been so simple.

But now he’s trading sleep for testing gluten-free recipes, something he would have never imagined doing. Yet Atsumu did all of  _ that  _ and not once did he feel an ounce of regret over it. And now he’s trying to make sense of it, this indiscernible tug that is confusing, but ultimately delightful.

Then he recalls Kiyoomi’s face--the faintest astonishment when Atsumu had confessed to baking the brownies just for him, the almost-smile that had been kept at bay after Atsumu had offered him the entire container. Perhaps it was Kiyoomi’s hesitance to open admission that continues to spur Atsumu to this challenge. But the more he remembers his features--inky black curls and inky black eyes and the scowl that had slightly softened while he stares at the brownie in his hand--Atsumu begins to think that maybe there’s something else other than pride that was hanging on the line.

He ends up ditching lecture hall, exhaustion suddenly blooming all over his body while he trudges to the library. He takes out his laptop, but doesn’t even bother opening it. Instead, he lets his head fall on the table, passing out effectively just a few minutes later.

________________

Usually, when Atsumu wakes up from his library naps, it’s because of either one of two things: 1.) it’s gotten too obscenely cold ; or 2.) his phone alarm goes off.

But this time it’s different because it’s not the inhumane indoor chill nor the blaring buzz of his phone on the table that shakes him from his slumber. Instead, he hears what sounds to be like items being shifted around in front of him. He cracks one eye open and there he sees the last person he would have expected to find him slumped over a dusty library table.

“You’re awake,” Kiyoomi says. 

Atsumu instantly sits up straight then he feels something clinging to his shoulders. 

“You looked like you were on the brink of freezing to death when I got here.”

_ It’s his coat. _

Atsumu must have been too exhausted for his body to register the cold and now Kiyoomi’s large peacoat that’s as dark as charcoal is wrapped around him. Atsumu  _ definitely _ feels warm, but it’s not just because he’s more bundled up than usual.

“So,” Kiyoomi is typing something in his laptop. “Why weren’t you at the lecture today?”

_ Because today was supposed to be a good day. Because I worked all night to make you something you could eat and I wanted you to try it out. Because there was a fuck up along the way so things didn’t go as planned. Because I realized it wasn’t just about my pride anymore or bragging rights. Because maybe I just wanted to see your face light up. Because, because I think I li-- _

“I had a rough day,” Atsumu sighs. “That’s all.”

And all Kiyoomi does is raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t press any further.

“Do you have an e-mail address?” Kiyoomi asks. “I’ll send you my notes from today.”

Atsumu had to blink multiple times before answering, just to confirm that he wasn’t caught up in some hypothermic delusion. 

“Err, it’s really just my name,” Atsumu tells him. “Just Miya Atsumu. And thanks, by the way. You really don’t have to do any of that.”

Kiyoomi continues typing regardless. “Hmmm...I just realized, I never knew your name until now.” Then his fingers are still on the keyboard and he’s looking at Atsumu. “Miya Atsumu. It suits you.”

Atsumu’s face is _ burning.  _ And as if feeling exceedingly shy about the way Kiyoomi has just said his name wasn’t enough, his stomach growls. Quite loudly.

“I think you’re hungry,” Kiyoomi says.

The ground could open up and swallow Atsumu whole for all he cares. Unfortunately, the tiled flooring stays firm beneath his feet. On impulse, he reaches for his phone instead to check for the time. He sees that it’s almost eight pm.

_ I slept for two hours?! _

The knots of hunger intensify. Hell, he even begins to think that he might also be dehydrated because when was the last time he even had any sip of water today? And yet, Atsumu wants to be nowhere else, but here. In Kiyoomi’s presence, hearing Kiyoomi enunciate the syllables of his name. 

_ Unless-- _

“You know it’s not healthy to ignore y--”

“Do you have somewhere else to be right now?” Atsumu asks. “Or later?”

And scowl lite makes an entry, although this one seems significantly tamer. “Why do you ask?”

And Miya Atsumu--unkempt, groggy, starving, and quite possibly still suffering from the residual effects of stage one hypothermia--shoots his shot in one of the least desirable places on campus. 

“Do you want to go to our café with me?” 

A beat later and he sees Kiyoomi closing his laptop.

“Sure,” he tells Atsumu. “Why not?”

Thank goodness the ground did not swallow Atsumu whole just yet.

________________

Kiyoomi, Atsumu finds out, is one of those college students who has their own car. If it weren't for his famished state, Atsumu would have definitely started teasing him about it, but sadly he's running too low on fuel and he needs to reserve energy if he wishes to not make an even bigger fool of himself by having a fainting spell. So he sits in the passenger seat without saying a word, appreciating instead in silence the cozy warmth of the car's heater. 

"What's your major, by the way?" Kiyoomi suddenly says. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Business," Atsumu answers. "You?"

"Pre-med track."

Atsumu hums. "So what are you doing in an economics lecture hall anyway?"

"I’m taking it as an elective," Kiyoomi explains. Then he's effortlessly turning the steering wheel for the car to round a corner. Atsumu has never thought much about how people look when they're driving. Until now, that is.

"But pre-med and economics are just...so  _ different _ ," Atsumu points out. "Don't you think it's, I don't know, a waste of time?"

And Kiyoomi glances over at him, not a scowl in sight. Then he's back to facing the road.

"I don't think I've wasted any time at all."

It's a good thing it's dark because Atsumu is undoubtedly red in the face for the second time that evening.

They finally arrive at the café and as Atsumu expected, it's closed.

Kiyoomi pulls over, but he doesn't switch off the ignition. "It seems that they've closed up shop."

"I know," and Atsumu unbuckles his seatbelt then he's swinging the car door open.

The lines between Kiyoomi's brows instantly make their appearance. "What are you even planning on doing?"

Atsumu then dangles a bunch of shiny keys in front of him. "I'm planning on showing you the perks of having a family café. So c'mon."

Kiyoomi looks vaguely horrified by the suggestion. "We're not going to get in trouble, are we?"

Atsumu sighs. "Listen. Do I  _ look _ like someone who would intentionally get a classmate in trouble for no reason?" 

"Objectively, yes," Kiyoomi answers immediately. "But subjectively…perhaps no."

"Then be more subjective," Atsumu tells him. "C'mon, let's go already. It's a lot warmer inside."

Kiyoomi surrenders in the end and he finally switches off the ignition to join Atsumu outside. After managing to unlock the front door, they slip inside the darkness that is shortly remedied once Atsumu finds the light switch. Then Atsumu is locking the door behind them.

"What are we doing here?" Kiyoomi whispers. 

"To eat," and Atsumu makes his way to the counter, all the way to the back kitchen with Kiyoomi reluctantly following closely behind.

"So your family owns this?" 

Atsumu nods as he turns on the heater, adjusting the temperature accordingly. "Hence the name. And I know, 'how un-creative'. FYI, I had no say in the naming process. If you wanna complain, take that up with my parents."

Then Kiyoomi pauses by the kitchen doorway, arms already folded over his chest. “What are you even going to eat here?"

The blend of adrenaline and excitement pumps in Atsumu's veins as he shuffles to the pantry, quick and spirited steps that probably make him appear just a tad bit unhinged. He continues to ignore Kiyoomi and proceeds to instead rummage through the pantry to find exactly what he's been looking for.

"As the saying goes," and Atsumu proudly holds up a bag of gluten-free flour. "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

The lines deepen along the stretch of skin that is Kiyoomi's forehead. Definitely just a notch below a lethal scowl. "That proverb doesn't even seem accurate to use in this situation."

"The thing is, I was supposed to give you these gluten-free strawberry shortcakes that were even  _ more kickass _ than the brownies," Atsumu explains as he pulls out one ingredient after the other from the pantry. " _ But _ my mom thought they were for sale. Sold them all to everyone at the café today."

"Well, that sounds particularly unfortunate."

" _ I know right?"  _ Atsumu whines. "And I didn't have enough time to make a new one from sc--"

"But I must say, it also sounds very sweet of you. No pun intended."

Dumbfounded is too mild of an expression to describe what Atsumu is feeling. Maybe he  _ does _ want the ground to swallow him whole after all.

"Well then," Kiyoomi crosses the kitchen until he's near the work table. He slips off his coat then he removes his face mask afterwards. "Let's bake. I'm starving."

Words elude Atsumu completely as he stands there fiddling with a rubber spatula, brain scrambling to reboot after just short-circuiting. So he nods wordlessly, fumbling for his phone where he had saved the recipe.

  
  
  


Atsumu's brain cells, thankfully, managed to recover eventually and the initial clumsy waltz between him and Kiyoomi transitions to a harmonious work flow that feels eerily natural.

They squeeze in stupid anecdotes that make them chuckle and toss rapid-fire Q&As in between all the scooping and stirring.

"So why pre-med?"

"I always wanted to be a doctor."

"Really?"

"Well, no. Firefighter, if I’m going to be honest. Up until I was twelve when I realized I was scared of heights."

"Can't have a firefighter who can't climb a ladder."

"Agreed."

"Why baking?"

"My brother has always been better at cooking. Figured I tried something different, something I could be better at."

"So you bake out of spite?"

"For the first few days, yes," then Atsumu pauses in the middle of cutting out dough circles. "Now I just bake out of love."

Atsumu feels the weight of Kiyoomi's stare and they're locking eyes for the first time.

"I'm glad to hear that," Kiyoomi tells him.

It dawns on Atsumu that they've unknowingly somehow minimized the space between them, too wholly preoccupied with the task at hand to even remotely notice the dwindling gap. And now when Kiyoomi brushes his elbow against his, it's an instant stab of electricity. He's just so near that he can smell him, touch him, ki--

"I think these are okay to put inside the oven already," Atsumu blurts out and he’s carrying the tray over to the large, preheated oven. 

“It should be ready in 15 minutes,” Atsumu announces as he walks back to the work table. 

A beat later and Kiyoomi opens his mouth to speak. “Thank you for inviting me here, by the way.” Then he turns to face Atsumu. “I genuinely had a lot of fun.”

The set of words Atsumu’s brain has arranged to be pushed out of his mouth clearly revolve around the lines of ‘you’re welcome’ and ‘anytime’ or even ‘I also had a lot of fun’. All _ very fitting  _ responses to Kiyoomi’s admission. 

But the way Atsumu just had to witness Kiyoomi’s face  _ soften _ , it was too tall of an order to stomp down on the series of words that came out instead.

“Do you want to go out with me?” 

Then the warmth in Kiyoomi’s eyes disappears, confusion swiftly settling in. Atsumu instantly feels like a daredevil who just did a backflip off a cliff--proudly courageous, but recklessly stupid. 

“Is this not it?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him. 

“H-huh?”

“Is this not a date?” Kiyoomi clarifies. 

_ Oh my god. _

Atsumu erupts into a full on belly laugh which he reels in just in time when he catches the confusion in Kiyoomi’s features twisting into a familiar glare. 

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu gasps. “I-I’m just really happy.”

“But again,” Kiyoomi presses. “Is this not one? A date?”

“I guess it is, but ideally I would have liked to take you out somewhere that isn’t the back kitchen of a food establishment after business hours,” Atsumu grins at him. “I think we can do better than this.”

Pale pink shades blossom on both of Kiyoomi’s cheeks, but his mouth curls up into a tiny smile. “I think this is perfect enough as it is.”

Atsumu could have easily swooned on the spot, however he manages to get a hold of himself because heaven knows if he’s gone way beyond the quota of looking like a monumental fool in a single night. 

“But maybe we should start cleaning up a bit though. My mom would _ kill me _ if she sees any stray evidence of me goofing off in here.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen,” Kiyoomi says and he’s flashing Atsumu a smile so potently beautiful enough to make Atsumu forget his own name. “Remember, you still have to take me out.”

A week ago, Atsumu was just any other college student and disgruntled part-timer who found his moments of respite in baking. Up until this point, he’d picked and prodded at the reasons for why things had taken a turn for the chaotic. But Atsumu understands it now. Because what sounded like a recipe for disaster at first had come out perfect in the end after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> been in a writing rut specifically when it comes to my sakuatsu fic series so i ended up making this clearly self-indulgent fluff au lol. it's my first time writing an au, so please be nice hdjshdhs. i had a lot of fun and i hope if you've read it, you had fun in some way too. thanks and i hope this was okay.


End file.
